


Batman: Visitor

by iammemyself



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:26:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iammemyself/pseuds/iammemyself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Riddler will occasionally refer to his 'thug father', and in general we assume most supervillain families are dead... but what if the Riddler's father is still alive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Batman: Visitor

Batman: Visitor  
  
Indiana  
  
  
 **Characters:** The Riddler  
 **Synopsis:** The Riddler will occasionally refer to his 'thug father', and in general we assume most supervillain families are dead... but what if the Riddler's father is still alive?  
  
  
  
Two of the guards come around and tell him he has a visitor.  Nobody tells him who the visitor is.  Everyone already knows.  He already knows, and tells them, as he does every time, that he _doesn’t want to see him_.  “It’s policy,” they insist, making him go with them.  “It’s good for you to see family.  Aren’t you glad he came to see you?  Most of the others’ families are dead.”

He can only _wish_ that man drops dead.

They sit him down in the visitor’s room, and as always, the visitor informs them with a charming smile that there’s no need to restrain him, he’ll behave himself, won’t you Eddie? and Eddie doesn’t answer, only grinds his teeth together and stares determinedly at the hands he’d like to wrap firmly around his visitor’s neck, but he won’t do it, ohhh no, he won’t stoop that low, he won’t he won’t -

And as soon as the guard leaves his father starts to whisper to him, and he tries not to listen but the words, the words are always too much and he draws his hands together as he is told for the umpteenth time what he is, all the things he most definitely is _not_ : liar, cheater, fraud.  Loser, wuss, good-for-nothing.  Disappointing.  Idiot.

“You always had so much to say,” the whisper goes on, “except for when someone was making you face the truth.”

 _He’s wrong_ , he thinks to himself, as what’s left of his fingernails begins to bruise his palms, _he doesn’t know me and he never knew me and he never_ cared _to know me, just like everybody else, he’s just like everybody else but_ you _,_ you _are_ special _, you are_ better _, you are_ superior _and he and people like him are nothing, they’re_ nothing _, do you understand?  They are nothing and_ he _is nothing and his opinions are meaningless because they are_ wrong!  _You don’t have to listen, you are_ above _him, you are above_ everyone _, and the only person you need to listen to is yourself!_

And he tries, he really does, to focus on the truth, _his_ truth, but as much as he hates himself for it there is still some fragment of a little boy down there, somewhere, desperately crying out for the approval of a man who will never, ever give it to him.  And that is the part that listens and that is the part that wants to ask for forgiveness.  The part that wants to know what it has to do to make it all right.  But there is no going back and there never was.  It is far beyond over and so he bites down on his tongue until he tastes the bitter metallic tang he has come to know far too well over these long years, and he says nothing.  The man silences the boy as he has always done, because children are weak and stupid and allow themselves to be hurt in their pathetic desperation for a modicum of affection, and he has not been a child in a very long time.

“You know I was right to try to beat it out of you, Eddie,” the whisper comes again, “or you wouldn’t lead the Batman to continue what I started, over and over again, would you?  That wouldn’t be very _smart_ of you, would it, son?”

“I’m not your son,” he mutters through a jaw that feels melded into one piece, though he meant to say nothing at all.  But it always happens like this, doesn’t it.  He always leaves that one clue, that one hint, that one _crack_ that allows anyone looking hard enough to break him wide open. 

“I try to tell myself that too, sometimes,” the whisper goes on, “but then I remember what happens to delusional liars.”

“I’m _not_ \- “ he protests, his voice rising, and this is one of those times where he is mentally screaming to himself to for the love of _God_ , Eddie, just _shut up!_ but it never really works, he can’t stop listening and he can’t stop talking and oh, just great, now his hands are shaking - 

“You’re in the loony bin, son,” the whisper continues, “You’re here because you’re a nutjob, not because you’re sadly misunderstood or whatever it is you tell yourself.  You’re a failure, as a son and a human being and whatever it is you call yourself when you prance around on television dressed like a lunatic.  You should be ashamed - “

And he doesn’t realise it until there are firm hands pulling his arms behind his back, but he is standing and there’s blood smeared on the glass and his hands are wet, and as he’s pulled back and stumbling over the chair he doesn’t remember rising from he’s screaming about how he doesn’t belong in here and his father is smiling and saying, “I’m sorry, I don’t know _what_ I said.  I really thought he’d behave himself this time.”  And he struggles, he knows he shouldn’t but he doesn’t care anymore, he is going to stoop that low this time.  He is going to punish this man he should have exacted vengeance on _years_ ago, he doesn’t know how he’s going to get to the other side but he’s going to figure it out once he shakes the insufferable buffoons restraining him who think he can be held if he wants otherwise, ha! but before he knows it he’s half-unconscious again and propped up against the wall in his cell.  Some idiot tranquilised him like some sort of wild animal, and some other moron is bandaging the hands he doesn’t remember injuring, and as they leave they shake their head and murmur how sorry they feel for him.  And he wants to scream at them how he doesn’t need their pity, he doesn’t need _anyone’s_ pity and he doesn’t need _anyone_ , period, but all the energy he has left as the medication takes hold is only enough for him to collapse onto the bed and cry.


End file.
